


Mutually Assured

by p1013



Series: Kinkuary 2021 [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 5 Times, Blow Jobs, Clothed Sex, Coming In Pants, Frottage, HP Kinkuary 2021, Hand Jobs, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Making Out, POV Harry Potter, Porn with Feelings, Semi-Public Sex, kind of pain play?, no beta we die like men, size kink if you squint at it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:20:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29188449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013
Summary: The heat grows, and Harry can feel wetness pooling in his pants. He's going to stop, he is, but then Malfoy looks over his shoulders, his silver eyes like a punch to Harry's gut when they meet his, and then Harry's coming. His mouth falls open on an involuntary gasp, and Malfoy raises one imperious eyebrow as he watches Harry fall apart.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Kinkuary 2021 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2140512
Comments: 54
Kudos: 429
Collections: HP Kinkuary 2021





	Mutually Assured

**Author's Note:**

> Subtitle: Five Times Harry Potter Comes in his Pants and One Time He Doesn't
> 
> * * *
> 
> Day Two - Clothed Sex

Harry is caught by surprise when it happens. He's sitting a few rows behind Malfoy, staring at the thin sliver of skin peeking out between Malfoy's collar and his slightly overgrown hair. It's pale and soft, dusted with thin, silver strands from where Malfoy's buzz cut has turned from severe to downy. A moment later, he reaches back to scratch at it, his nails digging into the skin and leaving light red marks behind.

Harry's transfixed by that slightly reddened skin, the way it hides behind Malfoy's collar only to reappear as he shifts his weight. The classroom is warm, and when Malfoy slides his robes off of his shoulders and Harry can see the entire expanse of pale skin and firm muscle that make up Malfoy's neck, he feels that heat grow. Shifting on his stool, Harry's cock presses against the front of his trousers. He's half-hard, and as he shifts again, it presses against the zipper. The hard bite of metal should make him soften, but as he watches Malfoy's back and neck flex beneath his white shirt, Harry only grows harder.

He glances around the classroom. No one's looking at him, their heads all bent like Malfoy's. They're in the middle of sitting an exam, and though Harry's only halfway done, he can't do anything but focus on the pale, thin, muscled bastard sitting in front of him.

Harry presses against the hard line of his zipper, lets the metal dig into his prick to a point just shy of pain. Moving subtly, he rocks back and forth, back and forth, eyes locked on Malfoy's neck, on the line of his shoulders, on the way his shirt pulls across his back. The heat grows, and Harry can feel wetness pooling in his pants. He's going to stop, he is, but then Malfoy looks over his shoulders, his silver eyes like a punch to Harry's gut when they meet his, and then Harry's coming. His mouth falls open on an involuntary gasp, and Malfoy raises one imperious eyebrow as he watches Harry fall apart.

"Mr Malfoy!" Slughorn shouts from the front of the classroom. "If you wish to pass your eighth year, I'd recommend you keep your eyes on your own work. Don't think that I won't fail you."

Malfoy's gaze on Harry lingers, but then he's turning away, head bowed again as he murmurs an apology and gets back to his exam.

Harry lets his head hang, tries to catch his breath. His handwriting is shaky across the second half of his essay, and his conclusion is probably a bit rushed, but with the way his pants are sticking to his softened dick, he'd rather get less than stellar marks and flee the room early than aim for a perfect score.

Though he doesn't look back, Harry can feel Malfoy watching him as he leaves.

* * *

They're at a Quidditch match. Eighth year students aren't allowed to be on the teams, so Harry's in the stands instead. He's bundled up with heavy robes, a bright red-and-gold scarf, and warming charms, but the wind still whips through him as he settles down at the top of the Gryffindor stands.

There aren't as many students as there were in years before, so there's enough space between him and the rest of the House for a bit of privacy. Harry's always looking for these moments, these stolen seconds where he doesn't feel like a freak on display. Everyone is too caught up in the game—Gryffindor versus Slytherin, with the match deciding who will take the lead for the House Cup—to pay him any mind, and with all of their eyes on the field instead of on him, he feels a bit like he can finally breathe.

"Potter."

His name startles him, though he doesn't jump. He also doesn't respond.

"Fine, be that way." Malfoy steps over the back of the seats in front of Harry, his long, lean legs encased in black trousers with a sharp crease down the front. Harry tries to pretend that he doesn't like the way they embrace Malfoy's calves, his thighs, but he can't pull his eyes from Malfoy's legs, and when Malfoy's robes settle around them as he sits on the bench next to Harry, he feels disappointment.

Malfoy doesn't say anything for long minutes. He keeps his eyes on the players, grey eyes darting across the field of play as the Quaffle passes from one Chaser to another. Harry wishes he could focus on the game, too, but he can feel the warmth of Malfoy's body next to his. He can see that perfect crease, and he wants so badly to wrinkle it.

Malfoy's eyes flicker towards Harry then back to the field as the announcer shouts that Slytherin has scored again. 

"I saw you, you know," he says without any judgement. "In the potions classroom."

"What a shock. It's almost like I'm a student here."

"I _saw_ , Potter." Malfoy shifts closer on the bench. His thigh presses against Harry's. "When you… had _fun_ in class."

Harry isn't cold anymore. "What of it?"

"You were looking at me."

"Again," Harry asks, his throat tight, "what of it?"

Malfoy's hand, spread out like a white stain across his black trousers, crawls its way over to Harry's leg. Each fingertip presses into Harry's thigh, each fingertip a soft pressure that has him gasping. They wrap around his leg, then squeeze. Not hard, not painful, just heat and weight against Harry's body.

"There's no reason you shouldn't also touch," Malfoy says, his pinky sliding along the inside of Harry's thigh, close to where Harry's cock is hard and aching. "I hadn't taken you for someone to stay on the sidelines."

Harry's hand slams down over top of Malfoy's. He squeezes the fragile bones, but it only makes Malfoy's grip tighten in return.

"Are you fucking with me, Malfoy?" Harry asks, his teeth gritted against the razorwire of hunger cutting through him.

Malfoy smirks and shifts his hand, his knuckles brushing against Harry's cock. "Not yet."

That's how they end up beneath the bleachers, Malfoy's back pressed against a wooden support, his chest pressed against Harry's. They're kissing, though there's a bit too much teeth for it to really be called that. Malfoy's mouth is more bite than caress, but just like the pain of his zipper, it sends Harry's pulse crackling through him. He'll have marks on his skin tomorrow, he knows, but as he thrusts against Malfoy, both of them still dressed, he doesn't care.

He wants it.

When he comes—his body arching into Malfoy's, his fingers tangled in blond hair, his teeth pressed against Malfoy's throat—he does it cursing.

* * *

Harry finds Malfoy in the library, the bare nape of his neck exposed yet again as he bows his head over a book filled with tiny script and curling pages. There's a palpable feel of magic emanating from it, twisting through the air as much as the smell of age and vanilla that leaks from the pages. Tentative when he never has been before, Harry approaches Malfoy carefully, making sure to keep his footsteps loud enough that he can be heard. They echo through the quiet library, and though Malfoy's shoulders tense, he doesn't look up from his work.

"Potter," he says before flipping to the next page, "I'm afraid now is not the time for whatever it is we're getting up to these days."

"That's not…" Harry frowns, then kicks the chair opposite Malfoy out from the table. He falls into it, then sets his heavy bag on the table top. "I'm here to study, you prat."

Silver eyes, sharp as a blade, glance up at him then turn away, a blow parried. "Of course. We are, after all, in school."

"Seems a waste, some days," Harry says as he pulls books, parchment, and quill from his bag. "Seems like there are other things we could be doing instead."

"Like what? Saving the world?" Malfoy laughs, then makes a note on his page. "I would have thought you'd be tired of that by now."

Harry's hands still in their motion, and as he stares at Malfoy (still refusing to look back), Harry thinks he might be right. This pervasive sense of distance from the world, from his life, his body, maybe it's all exhaustion. Maybe it's the strain of muscles that have been used well past their strength. Maybe it's the ache in his feet from running too far for too long. Maybe his eyes burn because he can't find any rest, and that's what he needs.

"Not yet," is what he says instead, before he opens his Transfiguration text and tries to find where he'd left off earlier.

He gets through a few pages before giving up. Malfoy isn't doing anything to draw attention to himself. As far as Harry can tell, he's dutifully focused on his work. Their feet keep brushing against each other under the table, though, and that damned hair of Malfoy's keeps falling into his face. Harry wants from the tips of his fingers to the tips of his toes, a vicious burning thing that won't let him go. And though they're not alone—he can hear other students in the library with them, though he can't see anyone else—and he really needs to get this essay finished, Harry pushes his chair away from the table, falls to his knees, and slides under.

"Potter," Malfoy hisses when Harry's hand grabs the top of Malfoy's foot, "what are you doing?"

"Shut up, Malfoy."

He slips his fingers under the cuff of Malfoy's trouser leg, trails them over the ribbing of his socks. It's warm and soft, softer than any of the socks that Harry's owned. He pulls the cuff down, surprised that Malfoy's skin is somehow softer. It's dusted with hairs that stand on end as Harry drags his fingers further up the leg of Malfoy's trousers until he can't move any further, his arm caught at the elbow.

The crease down the center wrinkles.

Cursing, Malfoy shifts in his seat, pushing his legs further under the table and widening them. Harry laughs quietly and pulls his hand free, digging his nails into Malfoy's skin as he goes. He repeats the motion over top of Malfoy's trouser leg, pressing against the muscled flesh beneath as he moves closer to the apex of Malfoy's legs. Even in the dim light of the library and the even dimmer light under the table, Harry can make out the line of Malfoy's cock. It's searing hot when Harry puts his hand on it, and though Malfoy's thrust into Harry's palm is cut off almost before it's started, Harry shivers at the press of Malfoy's cock against Harry's skin.

Malfoy's trousers have a button fly, and Harry takes his time opening each fastening. When the fabric gapes open, Harry presses close, noses at the shadowed places beneath. He's surprised when he feels hair against his face, then inflamed. Malfoy isn't wearing pants, and with a subtle shift of his hips, Malfoy's cock springs free.

It's the first time Harry's ever sucked cock. His technique is inexpert. Wanting, burning, he tries to take all of Malfoy's length in his mouth too fast, and when the head of Malfoy's cock brushes against the back of Harry's throat, he gags. Coughing as quietly as he can, he pulls away, spit trailing from his reddened mouth to Malfoy's reddened cock. A moment later, Malfoy's hand sneaks under the table. It pets the riotous mess of Harry's curls, soft and soothing, then pushes him forward so he can swallow Malfoy's cock again.

Harry doesn't go so far this time and finds that he can lose himself to this motion. The push and pull, the feel of blood-swollen flesh against his tongue. Malfoy's leaking precome into Harry's mouth, and the salty-bitter tang of it almost tastes like Harry's own. It makes Harry feel like he's one with Malfoy, like they're the same in this. 

Harry's mind floats away. He rests.

There are footsteps nearby, but the sound of them is distant and indistinct. All Harry can hear is the sound of his mouth on Malfoy's skin, the way the suction echoes quietly under the table, the quick gasps of breath he takes before replacing the oxygen in his mouth with Malfoy's cock. His jaw aches, and his lips are chapped and stinging, but he can't stop. He doesn't want to. The pain of it drags him in as much as Malfoy's hand on the back of his head.

Malfoy tightens his fingers in Harry's hair, his hips lifting from the chair with sharp, jerking motions. Harry knows what it means, recognizes that last moment before orgasm from when he's working his own prick, but he doesn't pull away. He doesn't want to lose this sense of weightless waiting that he's found. He keeps his lips tight around Malfoy's cock, presses his tongue against the heavy vein along the underside, and when Malfoy comes down his throat, Harry feels an answering rush of pleasure in his own body. The inside of his pants are sticky and warm. The inside of his mouth is sticky and warm.

Malfoy's hand in his hair is gentle.

* * *

It's late at night, and Harry's covered in sweat in the middle of the vacant Defense classroom. Their new professor, an American wizard who curses too much and apologizes for it even more frequently, assigned Harry physical defense drills that afternoon, ones Harry's been trying to run all night.

"You know all the magic stuff, kid," Professor Carter said with a shrug when the term first started. "But if I wanted to, I could put you on the ground before you knew it was happening."

After almost three months of training, that's not the case anymore. Now, Harry's one of the best hand-to-hand fighters in their year.

But not _the_ best.

No, as much as Harry hates it, that's Malfoy, and as he grins at Harry, his eyes bright and his sweat-dampened shirt sticking to his skin, he clearly knows it.

"Come on, Potter," he pants, his weight on his back foot, his knees bent, his arms raised. "How much longer are you going to take to put me down?"

God, does Harry want Malfoy on the floor. He can't decide if it's because they've been sparring for the last half-hour—Malfoy walked into the room while Harry was running solo drills, smiled at him, and then punched him in the face—or because he's been unable to stop thinking about the weight of Malfoy's cock in his mouth or the tangle of his fingers in Harry's hair. Now, all Harry knows is that he wants his hands on Malfoy's body again, one way or another.

He charges, though he's exhausted and knows it's a bad idea, and Malfoy easily steps to the side, letting Harry barrel past. For a second, he thinks he's going to keep going, but then Malfoy's got his subtle hands on Harry's wrist and arm, and Harry's face-first in the cushioning charm covering the ground.

Malfoy twists Harry's arm up and back, bringing his hand, palm facing the ceiling, to the nape of Harry's neck. Malfoy's knee rests in the center of Harry's back a second later, and as all of Harry's joints scream at the pain, he only grits his teeth rather than bang his free hand on the mat and signal to Malfoy to let him go.

Malfoy shifts Harry's arm another inch up. "Tap out, Potter. I know your shoulder must be aching."

"Never," Harry snaps, though he knows he's full of shit. He writhes against Malfoy's grip, but Malfoy's like a rock, like a marble statue, unyielding and cold and powerful. Laughing, he takes his knee from Harry's back, shifts his grip so that Harry is forced to lean further into the charmed floor, and then kicks Harry's legs apart.

When Harry tries to close them, Malfoy clicks his tongue and pushes them apart again. "Now, Potter," he says, and the rasp of his voice is as brutal as his grip on Harry's wrist. "If you won't tap out, I might as well enjoy this view. I've always wondered what you'd look like on your hands and knees for me."

Malfoy presses his groin into the crease of Harry's joggers. The ridge of his cock is hard and insistent, and as he thrusts shallowly against Harry's arse, Harry feels shame and arousal rocket through him in equal measures. It's not long before he's arching into Malfoy's body, his own prick hard and leaking.

"You're so different like this," Malfoy says between panting breaths. "I put my hands on you, and you melt.You _submit_." Another thrust, another sharp twist of Harry's arm. "Circe, if you could only see yourself, Potter."

Malfoy pulls away for a moment, but when he presses against Harry again, there's something different about the touch.

"What'd you do?" Harry asks, his free hand sliding towards the aching bulge of his cock. "Malfoy, what're you doing?"

"Getting my prick out," he says before thrusting again. "I'm going to ruin you, Potter."

Malfoy's thrusts pick up pace, and Harry palms at his cock to the same rhythm. He doesn't slip his hand beneath the waistband, just keeps it over the weight and heat of himself. It's enough like this, with Malfoy's body grinding against his and Harry's shoulder and arm aching and the room smelling like sweat and spunk.

Harry starts to come, and as he does, Malfoy's name tumbles from his lips like a forgotten prayer, like a litany. Over and over again, those two syllables cascading onto the floor before him while he comes so hard, his vision whites out.

"Ah, fuck, Potter." Malfoy twists Harry's wrist, then curses as he lightens his grip. "Gods, I'm going to—"

At first, Harry can't feel the heat of Malfoy's come on his back. He's drenched in sweat, and his body feels like it's steaming. But as he cools down and Malfoy releases Harry's aching wrist, Harry eases his body into a more comfortable position, and he can finally feel the sticky pull of semen against his back.

"I got it in your hair," Malfoy says with a smug laugh. "Let me…"

His fingers brush the ends of Harry's curls, but Harry pushes him away.

"It's fine," he says. He doesn't want it gone.

"You're a kinky arsehole, aren't you?" Malfoy says before he buries his fingers into Harry's hair, rubbing the come in as he kisses the breath from Harry's lungs.

* * *

Harry has always struggled with insomnia. Something about growing up with fear and the tight confines of the cupboard has left him unable to fully relax into unconsciousness. On the nights when he can't fight it back, when he doesn't want to use potions, when he doesn't feel like staring at the hangings around his bed, he goes to the Tower instead.

He doesn't know when it became a comforting place for him, rather than one filled with all of the horror of Dumbledore's death. The balustrade is cold against his back, and the night sky is black above him. Stars like pinpricks through thick fabric sparkle down at him, and he idly traces the lines between them, naming constellations to himself as he goes.

The door opens, and Harry finds he isn't surprised when Malfoy walks through it. Harry had just named him, after all. _Draco_. A curving line of light, the curving line of his smile.

"I should've known you'd be up here, freezing your pants off." Malfoy closes the door behind him and strides over to Harry, then settles on the stone next to him. "This feels like something you'd do."

"What? Look at the stars?"

Malfoy taps his shoulder against Harry's. "Mope."

"I'm not moping."

"Looking heroic, then, if that soothes your ego more." Malfoy stares at him for a heartbeat, his teasing expression softening. "Handsome, even."

Turning away as if it'll hide Harry's flushed cheeks, he looks out towards the Lake, its surface as black as the sky above. "I'm just thinking."

"Ah, of course." Silence except for the sleeping world around them. "What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing." At Malfoy's laugh, Harry continues. "Really. I was just looking at the stars."

Malfoy hums in response and tilts his head back, looking up and finally away from Harry. It gives Harry an opportunity to stare. This close, he can make out the nearly hidden freckles that dot the bridge of Malfoy's nose. They remind Harry of Perseus, and he thinks maybe Orion. Warriors. Myths.

"Do you wonder," Malfoy asks as he turns and catches Harry's eyes, "if we might have been friends when we were younger? If things were different?"

"Things weren't different, though."

Malfoy frowns. "You're not supposed to be pragmatic about it, Potter. It's a… a game."

Harry considers it. He reaches out and brushes the hair from Malfoy's brow, lets his pinky coast across Mirfak and Algol, Menkib and Atik. "I don't think we would've been friends, no."

He cradles Draco's jaw in his hand, draws his stiff body closer. "I don't want my friends the way I want you."

The kiss is soft, tentative. It's the first time he's tried to do a good job of it, to make Draco's body go limp and pliant against his. There's no fight this time. 

Harry's done fighting.

Eventually, he spreads Draco out along the flagstones. Their legs tangle, their hips moving slowly and steadily against each other, their mouths brushing gentle, teasing kisses that shouldn't feel as overwhelming as they are. Harry holds the night sky of Draco's face in his hands and marvels at its beauty.

The orgasm is almost an afterthought, lost in the wave of realization that Harry, like a star, might be falling.

* * *

They're laying in Draco's bed. It feels more real to him to be here, laying next to Draco in the dark, the curtains spelled shut and silent. A small _Lumos_ floats at the head of the bed. Its golden light is just enough for Harry to make out the various forms and planes of Draco's body.

There's a small space between them, and their hands rest in it. Fingers barely touch until they twine together. They don't say anything, just breathe.

Harry lets his hand caress Draco's arm, lets his fingers stop at the top button of his shirt. He waits there, a breath held, until Draco nods, his eyes turned black with the dim light and wanting.

Harry undoes the buttons one a time. The white cotton opens, and Harry follows the path it makes. He pushes it from Draco's shoulders, drags his hands over hard bone and harder muscle. Before he can think about it too much, he presses his mouth to the thin white scars that cover Draco's chests. Ones that Harry left.

Opening Draco's trousers is the only thing that feels familiar, but pulling them from his long, lean legs is like a revelation. His thighs are thick, his calves defined and jumping beneath Harry's hands. The delicate arch of his foot, the turn of his ankle, all a poetry of form meant to ruin and revive.

"Beautiful," Harry says, though it feels like a secret he hadn't wanted to let out.

Draco's kind enough to not comment. "Take your clothes off, Potter. I want to see you, too."

He's as hasty in undressing himself as he hadn't been with Draco. Hands fumble at his own fastenings, and he curses when his arms get caught in the sleeves of his jumper. When he's finally bare, his clothing pushed into a pile at the end of the bed, he sits back on his heels, knees bent, and stares at Draco, who stares back.

Harry's cock twitches.

"I should have known you'd be big, you utter jackass." Draco reaches for Harry's prick, then detours to his thigh instead. "Of course you'd be you _and_ hung."

Glancing between his cock and Draco's, he doesn't think there's that much difference in their size. When he wraps his hand around Draco's, he knows it's true.

"You're not that much smaller than I am," he says as he strokes it, his fingers mapping the shape he's spent so many nights remembering. "Bit longer."

"I feel like you're cataloguing me," Draco says as he thrusts into Harry's grip. "That shouldn't be hot."

Harry twists his hand over the crown of Draco's prick. It makes Draco shiver. "You are a bit weird."

"Shut up, Potter," he says before wrapping his leg around Harry and drawing him down into the covers.

It's a shock to feel Draco's body against his. There's no rasp of metal fastenings, no too-tight stretch of fabric across his hips and arse. It's all open air and hard muscle, sweat mingling on their skin where they touch. Draco's mouth is fervent and fierce against Harry's, only pulling away long enough to drag in a gasp of breath before falling back into deep, drugging kisses. His hands are just as harried. They pull at the muscles of Harry's back, of his arse, of his leg before dragging it over Draco's. When their hips slot together, they both curse.

"I should hate this," Draco says as he thrusts his cock against Harry's. "I should hate you."

"It feels too good." Harry kisses him. "You feel too good."

Draco moans. "Fuck you, Harry. Don't think you're winning here."

He laughs, but it fades into a moan when Draco wraps his hand around the both of them. His thumb drags across first his tip, then Harry's, smearing their precome together, easing the too-tight slide of Draco's palm across their pricks. When Harry thrusts into Draco's grip, they both curse.

"Like that," Draco pants. His other hand is in Harry's hair again, holding him close as they both watch their cocks move in the prison of Draco's fist. "Just like that."

Heat gathers in the pit of Harry's stomach, a low-deep ache that blossoms and spreads through his whole body. He thrusts again and again, and when he finally drags his eyes away from Draco's hand to Draco's face, he catches Draco's half-lidded gaze locked on Harry.

"I thought you were watching," Harry gasps.

"Only what matters."

He kisses Draco because he can't not. Harry touches Draco because he aches. He thrusts into Draco's grip and comes, mind vanished by the sensation of skin on skin, of finally finding something he hadn't known was lost. He calls out a name, Draco or Malfoy or God, he doesn't know. All he understands is that it sends Draco tumbling after, his cries caught and captured by Harry's mouth.

They lay together, hushed like the earth after snowfall. Harry isn't kissing Draco anymore, but his lips are resting against the dip of Draco's mouth where it meets his jaw. It's Draco who bridges the gap, who lets his lips move against Harry's as if they were meant to be there.

"What are we, Potter?" Draco asks before tangling his spend-slick fingers with Harry's. His grip is hard, desperate.

Harry brings their hands to his mouth, kisses Draco's knuckles, tastes their salty-bitter tang. He gives in.

"Inevitable."

**Author's Note:**

> I am not doing well with keeping the feels out of my porn. Sorry, not sorry.


End file.
